Trembling Faith
by Carinthe
Summary: Blood and death filling his entire vision, Brother Martin was on the verge of losing his faith in the Nine... A short Martin-centric story of the events during the Siege and liberation of Kvatch.
1. Chapter 1

_**AN:** Never before have I actually had any sympathy for an NPC in a computer game. Then Martin came along with his underdog story (and Sean Bean's wonderful voice, which, I'm sure, helped too) and my imagination went wild... This story is the result. I'm not quite sure what happened... Lack of sleep from spending too many nightly hours in Tamriel?  
_

_**Disclaimer:** All hail to Bethesda! Oblivion and the Elder Scrolls lore are not mine. If they were, Oblivion would have had a vastly different ending... (thank the Nine for mods...)_

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Blood and death filling his entire vision, Brother Martin was on the verge of losing his faith in the Nine.

Granted, in his youth, his faith had been in different gods, and the consequences of his ill-made choices still haunted his dreams from time to time. The absolution of his sins, bestowed upon him after he had completed a pilgrimage to become a priest of Akatosh, had made the memories more bearable.

But in his heart, deeply hidden from the outside world, there was still a large festering wound he didn't really want to go away. It served him as a constant reminder of his foolishness in the past, preventing him from ever making the same mistakes again.

His work provided a welcome means of distraction, and he devotedly tended to his duties, and more often than not, went far beyond them. He had learned that long days (and nights) trying to alleviate other people's suffering, be it spiritual, mental or physical, caused an exhaustion even the nightmares wouldn't penetrate. Allowing him precious, albeit too short-lived, rest.

His fellow priests all thought very highly of his zeal and dedication, but whenever they mentioned this to him, he felt like a traitor, an egoist who did it for his own peace of mind rather than someone else's.

Of course, they countered by suggesting that he was judging himself too harshly and that, in fact, he cared so much more about other people's happiness than his own.

He never tried to pursue that argument further. He did wish for everyone around him to be as care and pain free as possible. He tried his best to find those who were deviating from the right path and to talk some sense into them. Preciously few people ever showed any gratitude or appreciation for his help, but he never expected anything in return.

He even didn't hesitate to place himself into harm's way if it meant he could save another life.

But he feared that he didn't do it from a noble heart, but rather from a wounded one. A heart that would only welcome death over the constant pain.

Still, he didn't want to die on purpose. He would never even consider suicide. Not because he loved life too much , but because he was convinced that he shouldn't take the easy way out. He should suffer for his past sins if he wanted to have at least a feeble chance at a less harsh afterlife.

Atonement. The very thing he gave to every sorrowful sinner that came to confession with him, he wouldn't allow to give to himself.

He did have faith in the Nine. With every child he helped into the world, with every matrimony he blessed and even with every dignitary passing of a content soul into the afterlife, he had found more faith. He had learned to see the good side of things over the bad, and to accept that although the Nine's plans with the Mundus were not always obvious to a lowly priest, there _was_ a greater purpose behind it all.

A comfortable thought that made his days easier, his burdens easier to bear, and allowed him to lock away his inner feelings so as not to upset anyone else.

No one knew the Martin buried below the quiet gentle man, the hurt and the insecurities and the desperation.

His faith helped to keep that Martin from revealing himself to the world.

But when hell opened and spilled out all its ugliness and horrors into Kvatch, his faith trembled harder than the ground as the city fell apart around him.

Within few heartbeats, he saw people die in the most horrible ways at the hands of Daedric creatures that had previously only existed in the worst of nightmares. He saw how the bravery of the guards was rewarded with the most horrible suffering from which only death provided a relief.

And there was no mighty fist that swept down upon the invaders from the heavens, no booming voice cursing the Daedra back into Oblivion, no reason at all why the Divines would allow innocent children to be murdered...

His faith trembled in that moment of realisation, but it did not shatter.

For his wounded heart reminded him that he shouldn't presume to know the way of the other-worldly, and that the only thing he could and should really control were his own actions when faced with this terrifying situation.

Strangely, the realisation brought an unusual calm and clarity to his thoughts. He felt like it was a different person that ran out of the temple's safe embrace and straight into the hell outside, yelling for people to retreat to the sturdy stone structure, liberally casting offensive an restorative spells around, supporting and carrying the wounded to safety only to run back out into hell to find more survivors...

Certainly, he was afraid. Deep inside, he was terrified and the wound in his heart, opened afresh, ached more than ever. But his mind wouldn't allow room for such distractions. He could break down later. ..

If he lived long enough to meet that moment, at least...

The situation seemed beyond all hope, but still he prayed to Akatosh, and to every other Divine, for the strength to keep going, to keep doing the right thing, even if Oblivion would finally overtake them all and all his meagre actions would have been in vain...

He kept herding people into the relative safety of the temple, only his small dagger and his knowledge of offensive magic standing between them and the hordes of seemingly endless Daedra.

He was hit several times, by falling debris, spells, weapons... But his focus didn't waver and he regained his footing every time he was knocked down.

But in the end he was just a man, and his magicka wasn't endless nor was his body capable of handling more than a certain amount of abuse.

When he finally went down, it took him an unordinary long amount of time to realise that he wasn't moving anymore, and was, in fact, not seeing much more than the dirt of the courtyard.

He tried his best to move, to get up and help the panicked voice that sounded quite close. But even though his will was strong, his body refused to cooperate any longer. The pain of his injuries, that he had been pushing to the back of his mind so successfully before, suddenly rushed over him and overtook his senses.

The sounds of the battle around him dimmed and darkness started creeping up on him.

His last thought was a prayer to Akatosh, that somehow, in the unpredictable way of the Divines, there would somehow appear a rescue for all those people currently taking refuge the temple, that his decision to herd them in their would not become their grave.

But the only answer was a cold indifferent silence.

His faith trembled.

Then, something heavy slammed into his head, and his consciousness flickered and died.

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Not far away, a lonely figure prayed to Divines for strength, before stepping through the flaming gate, into the hell of Oblivion...

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	2. Chapter 2

_**AN:** A special thank you goes to those who reviewed. Your kind comments turned out to be a great motivator for getting the next chapter done, a week earlier than I had anticipated! I didn't intend for the story to span the entire main quest, only Kvatch, but you're starting to make me doubt that decision..._

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There was no way they would make it. Nothing short of a miracle would get them out of this awful mess.

Berich cursed wholeheartedly as he pierced a scamp with his legion issue blade. At the same time, he took a metaphorical stab at his own ancestry for ever putting him into this crazy world in the first place. And did those damn Daedra somehow manage to duplicate whenever he was blinking?

A shout made him pause, at least in his cursing, though he happily continued hack-and-slashing into the Daedric horde.

He identified the strong and somewhat rough female voice immediately as his superior officer's and couldn't help but be relieved as she shouted the order to retreat into the Chapel behind them.

He risked a quick glance around. The courtyard was littered with corpses, and although the Daedra were greatly overrepresented, unfortunately too many of those were their own people.

However, he agreed with the commander's assessment that there were no more survivors to be hoped for, and that they now had the duty to protect those few who had taking shelter in the chapel.

After a particularly vicious stab at a god-awful ugly creature he didn't even know the name of, Berich joined his fellow guards in their slow, controlled retreat.

However, his eye suddenly fell on one particular body and he instantly forgot his intentions of leaving.

"Cor!" He yelled at his colleague a few feet away. "Come quickly, we're taking him with us!"

Cor, a severe-looking redguard with a strength not betrayed by his lank body, started to protest against the foolish notion of dragging a corpse along, but stilled immediately when his eyes fell on the characteristic blue robes.

Without a word, he scooped up the priest and cradled the body in his arms with as little effort as he would have lifted a small child. And with the same gentleness.

This way of carrying left Cor unable to wield his sword, so Berich had to fight for the two of them, as they made their way to the chapel. However, there was a silent agreement between the two guards that this man, even in death, was not to be slung over one's shoulder like a mere bag of flour.

This man was not, had never been, a burden and should be treated with the respect he had rightfully earned.

They were the last to arrive at the chapel, and as two of their fellow guardsman pulled close the door behind them with a resounding bang, their superior swept up on them like a fury of Oblivion herself, ready to dish out some remarks about their insane act.

But, like Cor, she forgot her intentions when she realised who the victim in the redguard's arms was.

"Oh, no... Brother Martin..." She said, voice sounding rougher than usual, and even though her words were barely above a whisper, they carried in the large chapel and caught the attention of some of the survivors that were closest by. The whisper was passed along and the din in the chapel, the crying and weeping of the injured and the bereaved as well as the ruckus of dragging furniture to barricade the door slowly faded into a pregnant silence, where the only sound was the muted noise of Kvatch being destroyed outside.

None of those currently present did _not_ know the priest. The kind-hearted man had always been well-loved in Kvatch, having earned everyone's respect with his quiet strength, unassuming personality, and especially his dedication to helping anyone without ever expecting anything in return.

Kvatch had always been proud of this man, but never more than today, when the priest had been elevated to the rank of a bona-fide hero the moment he ran out to take on Hell itself to save his people...

Berich had been there from the moment the invasion had begun. He had seen the Oblivion gate spring to live seemingly out of nothing as he stood guard on a quiet afternoon.

Although at the moment, he hadn't known what the contraption was.

Even when Daedra had started pouring out, he had been at a loss as to what was happening, and if Cor hadn't pulled him along, to take shelter behind the cities defences, he would have been the first casualty to have fallen.

His mind had only snapped out of the dream-like surreal state when Captain Matius' voice had rang out clearly over the inhuman screeches and explosions.

By the captain's orders, his second-in-command Tierra had taken half of the Kvatch garrison deeper into the city to evacuate as many citizens as they could find, while Matius and the others had taken up post at the main gate.

Berich hadn't seen the captain or anyone else of his group since then, and he hoped they were alright, but feared the worst. But he had been too busy making sure he didn't get killed himself to dwell much on the fate of his fellow guardsman.

It had been utter chaos. Horrible, terrifying chaos filled with death following on the wings of the Daedra...

Tierra's group had been overrun by invaders and involuntarily been split into several smaller groups that had lost track of one another. Outnumbered and with no hope for rescue or reinforcements, the garrison soldiers had come preciously close to applying the 'let every man fend for himself' philosophy.

After all, the punishment for desertion was far less severe than the risk of staying...

Then, with a perfect timing that some would call divine intervention, a man in blue robes had appeared between them, running headlong into the battle to help the weak and the injured. The priest had appeared fearless as he weaved between Daedra, almost casually dismissing of them as they crossed his path, as his focus had stayed true on those in need of his help.

None of the Kvatch soldiers could fully understand the impact the actions of that one man had had, never mind the reason for it. But, from one moment to the next, they had given up all thoughts of deserting. They had found a new surprising strength within them and a burning desire to follow the priest's example.

'This must be how heroes are born...' Berich had mused vaguely at the moment, as he had started attacking the Daedra with a renewed purpose, aglow with the strange power in his heart.

They had fought side by side, gathering all citizens they could find and escorting them to the relative safety of the Chapel of Akatosh.

And through it all, through the falling rubble and the monsters and death, there had been the man in the blue robe. A beacon of quiet strength and purpose in the midst of the storm.

Brother Martin.

Kvatch's dear son that had made himself immortal by this heroic deed.

Berich swallowed thickly as he looked down upon the limp body that Cor was still cradling protectively in his arms.

The robe was no longer blue, but matted by dirt and blood, tattered and torn beyond repair.

But his mere presence, the ghost of what he had been, was still enough to instil a powerful respect in those present, and somehow strengthened their resolve to survive, or at least to fight until their last breath.

To honour his memory. To make sure he hadn't died in vain. To tell his inspiring tale for generations to come and as such keep a part of him alive for all eternity.

A true hero deserved no less.

Reluctantly, Cor stopped forward, breaking their silent tribute of respect. Berich noticed his arms were trembling, and he quickly picked up a forgotten blanket, spreading it on the stone floor.

They all knew it was rather silly, for a corpse would not be bothered by the coldness of the stone, but nevertheless Cor settled the priest atop it, gently as if he were a sleeping child.

Detachedly, Berich watched a female priestess, Oleta if memory served him correctly, quietly kneel next to the body, preparing for the last rituals that would guide his spirit to a better place.

Suddenly, she gasped, and Berich hoped she wouldn't start crying, for he wasn't sure his own eyes would stay dry if she did.

But when she looked up, her mouth was curved in a tentative smile and her eyes were shining with a barely contained joy.

"He's still alive!" She said, sounding as incredulous as Berich felt at the unexpected statement.

As she started to pour her healing power into the man's battered body, Berich pinched himself to make sure he wasn't dreaming.

Surely, no mere man could survive such a thing... Granted, some of the blood could easily have been that of others, but Berich had seen the priest go down a fair few times...

Unless it was truly a miracle...

Again, that strange feeling coursed through his veins as when he had first seen the priest dart purposefully across the battlefield.

And as he looked around, he saw the same determination and strength burn in the eyes of the others.

Humbled, he looked down upon Brother Martin, realising that he would be willing to give his life for this man, that he would follow him into the planes of Oblivion itself if he so commanded.

Idly, he wondered whether this man was more than just a mere priest. A descendant of great heroes, perhaps, the blood of a powerful family line flowing through his veins...

A loud knock on the door brought them all instantly back to the present.

"Help! Please..." A young woman's voice pleaded, muted through the heavy oak doors. "My child, she's trapped..."

Cor immediately started dismantling their makeshift barricade, and the others joined in without needing any formal command.

Tierra nodded as Cor and another soldier volunteered to aid the young mother and wished them good luck.

They all knew there was only a very slim chance that anyone would survive more than a few moments out there. But as long as there was a chance, they couldn't refuse to help.

Because Brother Martin wouldn't have...

As Berich helped restoring the barricade, he smiled softly to himself.

Those Daedra could give it their best shot, but he felt, he _knew_ somehow, that at least some of the people of Kvatch would survive.

After all, miracles were known to happen from time to time...

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Very far away, on a completely different plane, two hands hesitantly reached out to a dark orb and plucked it out of the stream of fire atop of which it rested, and the result would be called a miracle by many.

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	3. Chapter 3

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Martin woke up to the warm touch of fingertips darting across his chest. His body tingled in the wake of the touch, and belatedly he recognized the feeling as that of magic.

As the pleasantly warm feeling spread, went deeper into his chest, he suddenly noticed that there was a source of fierce pain there. But before the realisation could fully set in, the magic had already started dimming its intensity, and soon the pain had faded to a dull ache, which no longer consumed his entire mind.

His thoughts became clearer, more focussed, as his senses were beginning to kick in as well.

The first thing he noticed was the smell of blood, immediately followed by its tell-tale metallic taste in his mouth. It caused him a little worry, but did not provide enough incentive to try and open his leaden-heavy eyelids.

Instead, he concentrated on the feeling of cold stone beneath him, tempered somewhat by a rough material. A blanket of sorts, perhaps.

Then, there was a cool breeze briefly running across bare skin and he realised that there was most definitely no blanked covering his chest.

Fuzzily, he thought that the idea of being naked, even if only partially, might normally be upsetting him. But the thought was not deemed important and drifted away.

He heard subdued voices nearby, and a strange noise in the background that he couldn't quite place. His curiosity peaked again, but his body, his head, felt too heavy and tired to respond.

All it took was the cry of a woman, filled with desperation and grief, that made him abruptly open his eyes and sit up.

Pain blossomed into its full, crippling potential, and he gasped as he fell back, trembling muscles failing to keep his body upright.

His vision temporarily greyed out and he grit his teeth to prevent himself from vocalising the pain, but couldn't quite help a soft moan from escaping.

"Martin!"

The voice was familiar to him, but his mind refused to provide the name or face it belonged to.

He blinked a few times, and the world slowly slid back into focus.

A woman's face, dark of skin and hair, was peering closely at his, forehead wrinkled in concern.

"Oleta…" He said. Or at least he attempted to say it. His rough painful throat, however, refused to produce anything quite intelligible.

Suddenly, a vial was pressed against his dry lips and he opened them obediently, drinking in the liquid with all the desparate need of a traveller that had been deprived of water for a week.

Belatedly, he noticed the sharp aftertaste of the Mute Screaming Maw plant, identifying the draft as a strong healing potion.

He started to protest, wanting to tell Oleta to keep her strongest potions for those truly in need of it, but she cut him off quickly before he could finish his sentence.

"Shut up, Martin." She said, but her tone was exquisitely gentle, belying her words.

The expression on her face made him pause even more than her words. He could see concern, there, as well as some other emotion he couldn't quite place.

Admiration? Pride?

"You nearly died on us." Oleta continued, foreshadowing his further questions. "First you save us all and then you almost leave us in this mess by ourselves…"

Martin's gaze followed the sweeping gesture of her arm, taking in the many refugees gathered in the Chapel of Akatosh, and the memories rushed suddenly back at him.

"I'm sorry…" He said quietly, briefly closing his eyes in a futile attempt to shut out the world… and the 'mess' he had created within it.

He started to take a deep breath, but his chest protested painfully and he settled for a small shallow intake, before agreeing.

"I shouldn't have brought the people here, causing them to become trapped…"

Another voice, also female but deeper than Oleta's, startled him, and he opened his eyes again to see a Kvatch guard kneeling next to the healer.

"Don't ever be sorry about your actions, Brother Martin!"

Martin finally recognized the Captain's second-in-command, Tierra, underneath all the dirt and blood, and send a small prayer of thanks to Akatosh for her presence in the chapel. He had come to know her as a resourceful and highly skilled guard, that seemed able to tackle any problem she was confronted with.

Currently, she was frowning in a faintly disapproving fashion as she went on, using the same tone she would to lecture an ignorant child.

"Don't second-guess yourself, Brother. You did what was the best solution seeing the circumstances. Had you not herded these people into the chapel, none of them, none of us, would have survived…"

She swallowed, and Martin caught a glimpse of the frightened girl hidden underneath the armour of –both physical and mental- steel.

He briefly took her hand in his own and gave it a reassuring squeeze.

"Have faith in the Nine, Tierra." He said softly. "Even though the hour may be dark and the future uncertain, faith can make us strong enough to face what we cannot change…"

He felt somewhat guilty for speaking words he didn't truly believe in himself.

However, they seemed to have the desired effect. Tierra's mouth curved up almost imperceptibly, but her eyes lit up with a sudden fire of determination and courage.

Martin felt humbled to see such strength in the face of adversity, and admired her greatly for it. All the while berating himself for ever doubting the Kvatch guard, for questioning his own faith in the Nine.

Then, she spoke up again, and her voice left no room for doubt.

"It is not so much the Nine that have restored my faith today -all of our faith, in fact. It was you, Brother Martin…

The moment I laid eyes on that dreadful siege engine, I lost all hope, and when I saw the first child die in front of my eyes, I cursed the Nine and renounced my faith in the Gods that allowed such… evil to happen without interfering… But then, I saw you…

You showed us all a different path. By setting the example, you proved it is possible to still do what it just and right, even in the face of desperation."

Her dark eyes burned into Martin's with a frightening intensity.

"You gave us purpose, where there was none. And I dare say, you gave us hope. If not to survive this day, then at least to face it with dignity..."

Her voice rang clear in the large chapel. "We are all prepared to follow you, wherever that path will take us placing our faith in you…"

"… and in the Nine, of course." She added belatedly.

Martin squirmed a little, feeling decidedly uneasy under the adoring gaze of Tierra, and, he noticed a moment later, the majority of the chapel's occupants.

"Please…" He said softly. "You are doing me too much honour. I only did what I had to, what anyone would have done…"

"No, Brother Martin." Oleta spoke up. "You did more than most would have done, much more than anyone could have expected of you... We are all very proud of you, my friend."

Martin felt his face redden, now deeply uncomfortable under the high praise he didn't feel he had rightfully deserved.

Luckily, Oleta took pity on him and shooed away Tierra, as well as some of the bystanders that had gotten too close to her liking.

"Now, leave him be. He needs to rest. His injuries were grave, and his body will need a long time to recover…"

She next presented yet another vial to Martin, and when he opened his mouth to protest again, she skilfully tipped the bottle so he was forced to either swallow or choke on the potion.

He felt his magicka regenerate almost instantly and directed some of it to dim the pain in his body which distracted him too much to keep his mind clear.

When Oleta pulled out a third potion, undoubtedly a sleeping draught, he used his new-found strength to gently but firmly push her arm away as he sat up, slower this time and making sure not to shift his torso too much.

"I'm fine, Oleta." He insisted, choosing to ignore her disbelieving snort.

"My body is healing, and I would like to express my deepest gratitude for your fine care, Sister." He took a deep albeit careful breath and was pleased to notice the pain was no longer as intense as before.

"I can help…" He insisted.

Oleta was on the verge of replying, quite likely in the negative, but her words were drowned out by another long piercing scream filled with anguish.

Both Martin and Oleta turned to the source, a Dunmeri woman who was clawing hysterically at the blanket someone had put over her frail shoulders.

"My baby!" She cried, the deep sadness in her voice leaving none unaffected. "The fire… No… We must save her…"

She made a wild scramble to get to her feet, but even before Tierra, who was closest, could stop her, the Dunmer's own injured body betrayed her, and she sank to the floor again, into a small, softly sobbing heap.

"She has regained consciousness already?." Oleta murmured incredulously to herself. "I should have given her a stronger sleeping draught..."

Her eyes focussed on the vial in her hand and Martin understood her intention.

"Oleta, please." Martin spoke up, drawing the healer's attention back to him.

"Not yet. She will not sleep well, even with the strongest of sleeping draughts, she will still be plagued by nightmares... Please, let me try to comfort her, first." Martin volunteered, and quickly went on before Oleta could protest.

"Your skills as a healer are needed elsewhere, and Tierra or the other guards have other worries."

Oleta hesitated, still seeming largely unconvinced, so Martin expanded on his argument.

"Besides, I won't move much so as not to strain my healing body. She needs my mental support more than any physical help…"

Oleta finally nodded, if reluctantly.

"Wait here." She instructed him, and before he could argue, raised one eyebrow inquisitively. "Unless you mean to dart around this chapel like some of them Sheogorath worshippers, that is…"

Huh? Sheogorath worsh…

He suddenly found the floor very interesting as he hugged the blanket close to his bare chest, hoping his longish hair would somewhat manage to hide the bright red colour his face was quickly turning into.

Oleta did her best to hide a chuckle as she quickly went down into the undercroft.

To Martin's relief, she was back quite soon with a spare robe, but not too soon so most of his blush had already disappeared.

He mumbled a thank you as he accepted the robe, and another one after being assisted with pulling it over his head after his first unsuccessful attempt.

She smiled as he blushed again, but at least allowed him to pull on the set of spare pants without offering any help.

It wasn't an easy task though, partly because it was awkward to put them on while trying to keep himself covered with the blanket, and –mostly- because his injured body protested painfully at most movements.

But his pride didn't allow him to call Oleta back, so he grit his teeth and endured the pain and embarrassment by focussing on the Dunmer woman, who was still weeping quietly, now almost soundlessly, a mere few feet away from him.

Yet the distance almost proved too much for his weak body, and he fell rather than sat down next to the crying woman.

Oleta shot him a stern glance, and he knew he had to hide his discomfort if he didn't wish to have another potion being poured down his throat within the next few seconds.

He gave her a smile and a nod to indicate that he was fine, but she clearly didn't buy it. Luckily, her current patient suddenly moaned pitiously, effectively pulling her attention away from a thoroughly relieved Martin.

Martin turned toward the sobbing woman at his side and gently, tentatively put an arm around her shoulders. She flinched but didn't pull away, and he slowly laid his free hand on her own hands, that were clawing desperately at the blanket.

The touch managed to still her fidgeting, and she looked up at Martin, blood red eyes awash with tears, seeing beyond him.

"She's trapped…" She whispered. "My little baby girl is trapped…"

Her face looked vaguely familiar to Martin, but he wasn't quite sure...

"We went with her a little earlier." A voice nearby suddenly broke his train of thought.

Martin looked up to find a Redguard in the Kvatch guard uniform hovering hesitantly nearby.

"Cor?" Martin questioned softly, and the guard seemed a little surprised that the priest knew his name.

"Yes, Brother Martin." The Redguard said after a brief hesitation. "She came to the chapel, asking for help, saying her daughter was trapped under the rubble. Trabard and I went with her, as she led us to her collapsed house. But by the time we had arrived there, it had burned out completely… There was no hope for any survivors still under the rubble… None at all…"

He swallowed thickly, before continuing. "She became hysterical. Her cries attracted the Daedra like rotting meat does flies… And we had to fight our way out, back to the chapel… Trabard didn't make it, and she almost didn't either. An arrow… But Healer Oleta says she'll be fine soon… Well, physically at least…"

He looked decidedly uncomfortable, and Martin realised that he was feeling guilty, even though he had done everything in his power to help the woman.

"You did a brave thing, Cor, and nothing more could anyone else have done. You have nothing to blame yourself for…"

The conviction in Martin's voice appeared to cheer up Cor a little, though his dark eyes remained sad as he glanced upon the Dunmeri woman that suddenly clung to Martin in a renewed bout of soft sobs.

The priest embraced her gently, rubbing her back softly as she trembled with anguish.

"She needs no words at this time, Cor." He quietly addressed the Redguard.

"No words would adequately describe her pain, no words would be able to take it away. The time for rationalisations is later, when she has regained some control over her emotions. What she needs right now, is someone she can sipmly share her grief with."

Cor nodded mutely, understanding dawning in his eyes. And, Martin noticed with some embarrassment, there was again that strange look of pride and admiration that appeared to be directed at his person.

Uneasy, he focussed his attention back on the frail woman crying into his chest, quickly soaking his robe, and couldn't help but sigh somewhat relieved when Cor moved away to stand guard by the door again.

Martin would still feel eyes upon him, however. He tried to shrug off the feeling, not at all comfortable with being the centre of attention.

Then, luck intervened in the form of three loud knocks on the chapel's doors.

"This is Captain Savlian Matius of the Kvatch guard! Are there any survivors in here?"

Tierra, strong sturdy Tierra, heaved a sigh of relief that sounded suspiciously like a sob, but the other guards pretended not to notice, as they swiftly started to dismantle their makeshift barricade in front of the doors.

"Captain Matius!" Tierra responded as she helped pulling away the last heavy bench, joy clearly present in her usually emotionless voice. "We are opening the doors right this moment..."

The next moments appeared like a dream to Martin.

Savlian Matius and several guards poured into the chapel, quickly pushing the doors back closed as soon as they had all entered safely. The captain started speaking to Tierra, his relief mirrored on her face.

Martin didn't listen to their words, his eyes took in their saviours as a tree the rain after a long hot day.

Rescue.

Hope.

Faith rewarded...

His eyes came to rest upon the last of those who had entered. The only one not wearing a Kvatch guard uniform...

In fact, the armour looked old and battered, hardly providing any protection in battle. The person beneath the armour, however, looked even worse, covered in more dirt and blood than all the other guards together.

In fact, it even prevented Martin from discerning whether this stranger was a man or a woman.

He did notice, however, the looks he or she was getting from the guards. Looks of admiration that had been thrown his way as well.

And, he idly observed, the stranger did seem equally uncomfortable under those gazes as Martin himself had been, waiting quietly in the shadows, keeping apart from the joyous reunion of the others.

As if he was suddenly struck by lightning, Martin felt a connection to this strange person he had never met. An irrational feeling that they were destined to meet...

Then, Savlian Matius' voice broke through his trance-like state as the captain ordered some of his men back outside, apparently to look for the Count. The old man grinned when the stranger nodded and slipped through the doors as well to join his team.

Although Martin's eyes remained on the now closed doors, his mind's eye provided him with different images.

An image of a red stone... and a dragon made of fire...

Destiny...

He returned to the present time when Oleta's concerned face appeared in his line of sight.

"... Martin? Are you okay? Martin, can you hear me?"

He shook his head to clear his thoughts, and was rewarded by as sharp pain that served well to improve his focus.

"I'm fine." He answered automatically.

"Rrright..." Oleta's voice was highly sceptical as she rolled her eyes in the way of the long-suffering, but at least she had seemed to have given up on trying to mother him.

Martin took note of his surroundings and quickly realised they were all preparing to evacuate.

Of course... Captain Matius and his group had cleared a path...

An escape out of this hell...

Martin found a new source of strength within him of which he hadn't known the existence of. He got up, gently supporting the Dunmer woman who was now quiet as she stared at the doors.

Martin wasn't sure what she was looking at. Perhaps she saw the destruction beyond, and her child lost within it. Or maybe she too had seen something in the stranger beyond the old cuirass and dirty face...

Martin quickly brushed that thought away. His mind had obviously been under a lot of strain as of late, and he was starting to imagine things.

Still, as they started the long journey to the refugee camp outside the city, he listened in avidly as two nearby guards were discussing the stranger's key role in the closing of the Oblivion gate that had prevented Matius and his guards from re-entering the city.

A lonely traveller that had arrived outside Kvatch, without any decent armour or weaponry, that had volunteered to close a gate 6 highly-trained and well-equipped soldiers had failed to even return from.

One person overcoming the hellish creatures and other dangers of Oblivion. A powerful ally to follow into the Daedra infested city.

The proclaimed Hero of Kvatch...

Martin couldn't help but becoming ever more intrigued by this reluctant Hero. He hoped he would be granted the opportunity to express his thanks to the Hero, and on the heels of that particular thought instantly followed the completely irrational feeling of cenrtainty that he would.

Arriving at the refugee camp, Martin's thoughts were once more fully focussed on the many survivors in need of his aid, be it as a healer or a priest, or just as a shoulder to cry on.

In the face of all this anguish and agony, he temporarily pushed his own pain, which seemed so insignificant compared to that of others, away.

The general atmosphere in the emergency encampment, however, was quite optimistic. Certainly, there were injuries and there were losses to mourn, but most people tended to favour looking upon the good side of things. The gate was shut, the Daedra were driven back, their lives were spared...

The sudden rush of happiness and adrenaline brought upon by their rescue from the chapel slowly dissipated, and when Martin spotted the Dunmer woman huddled under a tree, far away from the general celebratory crowd, his mind and body grew heavy again.

No one appeared to care about her. She was shivering in the evening's chill, having lost her blanket, yet no one had brought her a new one.

Her eyes were puffy and her face contorted in a mask of anguish, yet no one had taken it upon themselves to comfort her.

She was Dunmer, and it Martin's memory served him correctly, a little bit of an outsider when it came to Kvatch's public life. She worshipped different gods, followed her own customs and hardly ever interacted with anyone expect to barter for food or clothes.

After all, the Dunmer were a proud and stubborn race, mostly keeping to their own kinsman.

Dark Elves were believed to be of lesser worth by many of the other races, who claimed that their dark skin and blood red eyes were the result of a curse and that it was perfectly all right for them to suffer the consequences even still.

Martin had never liked or condoned that kind of attitude, but quite frankly, he was not in a position to do much about it. He had no political ambitions, and the word of a priest, no matter how passionate, held no word of law...

Martin was now certain where he had met this particular Dunmeri woman before.

She had come to the chapel to beg the priest-healers to save her little baby from an illness unknown to her.

He had seen Oleta's disapproving stare and had quickly intervened when the healer had wanted to throw the 'heathen' out of the chapel. He had suggested to come with her to her house and had tried his very best to save her baby.

She had been reserved, but not unfriendly. It was very clear that she cared greatly for her baby, but she hadn't attempted to seek any friendship with Martin. He had discovered that she was shy rather than aloof as the others saw her, and he suspected she did not attempt to socialize because her previous attempts had been unsuccessful.

It had taken him the better part of a night, and the difficult healing had left him drained and a little ill for days afterwards, but the little Dunmer baby had survived, clinging to life with a stubborn tenacity that had both surprised and pleased Martin.

The mother had fallen asleep of exhaustion by the time he finally deemed the child's health stable enough to leave, and he hadn't had the heart to wake her. He had left quietly, never even knowing her name, never expecting to receive anything in return.

Yet, two days later, he had found an exquisitely carved enchanted dagger in his little room in the chapel. When he had shown it to Brother Ilav, the man had been gushing over it for days, claiming it to be an exquisite and very precious piece of Dunmer-made weaponry...

Even though he had no other material possessions, Martin had never thought of selling the dagger.

It had come in quite handy against the Daedra, who appeared to be particularly weak to the enchantment upon the Dunmeri dagger...

While these musings went through his head, Martin quickly retrieved a blanket and sought out the lonely figure under the tree. He carefully tucked the blanket around her frail shoulders and settled wordlessly beside her.

Though she didn't show any sign of recognizing him, she eventually leaned into his warmth.

Her red eyes, now dry, seemed to shine dully in the dusk, empty of life, like the dying sun at the far horizon.

He had told Cor before that there would be a time to talk to her about her loss later on. But suddenly he doubted those words, doubted that there would ever be anything he could say that would rekindle the light in her eyes...

His faith in the Nine was not fully restored.

It still trembled, but now Martin knew it would not shatter.

He had seen the hand of the Divine in the actions of his fellow citizens, of the guards, and of the unknown Hero that had arrived with perfect timing to save them all.

He no longer doubted the existence of the Divine, only their ways of interfering, as he softly murmured nonsensical words of comfort to the woman beside him.

He had spend a night praying for the life of her child, pouring every last bit of his Magicka into the frail body, willing the baby to live to grow up into a strong Dunmer woman like her mother...

Only to find out now, years later, that his previous efforts and prayers had been in vain. That the Gods had decided to take away this woman's daughter for the second time...

As the sun was hiding ever more below the horizon, the darkness of the night surrounded them. A little ways from the torches that lit the main camp, Martin and his Dunmer companion were soon completely hidden in the shadows.

Until one torch broke loose from the others and headed quickly in their direction.

Martin blinked against the sudden light, at a vaguely familiar outline who appeared to bend down.

Suddenly, a little form broke loose and practically flew at the Dunmeri woman, crying "Mommy! Mommy!" in a high-pitched voice.

"Meli?" The Dunmer whispered incredulously, but it did not take her long to return the child's loving embrace.

Martin couldn't help grinning as he watched the eyes of the reunited mother and daughter light up like bright burning fires of joy, and though it was still night around them, he saw in them a bright new dawning sun, full of strength and promise.

"Let's give them some privacy..."

Martin looked up to the whisperer and was not particularly surprised to recognize the Hero of Kvatch.

"I'd like you to come with me..." The Hero said quietly. "There is something important I need to tell you..."

He took the offered hand, and the touch send a powerful shiver across his spine.

Destiny...

In the other's eyes, he could see some of his sentiment reflected.

He walked alongside the Hero, away from the merriment in the camp, away from the quiet happiness of the reunited mother and daughter, into the cold dark night.

But inside his heart, there was a bright burning flame. Its warmth and light were a balm to the old wounds that had been festering there for too long.

For the first time, he entertained the idea of allowing his heart to heal, and let only a faint scare serve him as a reminder of the past.

His faith was no longer trembling, and it never would again.

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Somewhere, in some ways more remote than any plane of Oblivion, yet at the same time present in all aspects of Mundus, the Nine Divines looked on as two figures left the ruined city of Kvatch together and continued on the path of destiny...

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_**AN:** That's all folks! At least, this was the story I had planned to write, with a nice generic Hero of Kvatch you could all imagine to be your own favourite character. Delving further into the main quest without giving the Hero an actual face (& gender) would not work for me... But, well, you never know where inspiration may take you :-)  
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_Thanks for reading & reviewing!_


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